Nick Reid stepped out of the newspaper building into the deserted Manchester street and wondered what the silence reminded him of. He took a cool breath of early morning air and stretched, wincing at the bruises he'd brought back with his report from the picketing. An unanswered phone rang in the office on Deansgate; a single car cruised past the department stores on Piccadilly, sending pigeons up from the roadway to wheel above the gable windows. Nick ran his fingers through his crinkly hair and tried to let the silence be itself. It couldn't be important to remember; he just wanted to wake up so as to drive home and sleep. He glanced up as sunlight snatched at the steep roofs through a gap in the clouds that were rushing a storm towards the Peaks. Memory seized him then, it felt as though by the scruff of his aching neck. "Diana," he gasped, and then he realised what else was wrong.

He limped into the building, across the lobby that turned his footsteps high-pitched, up the stairs to the library. The blank grey screens of microfilm readers gleamed dully under the tubular lighting of the small white room. He ought to call Diana — he couldn't even remember how long it had been — but surely there was no need to wake her up. He began to leaf through the file of the last few weeks' issues, looking for the article about the Peaks.

He found it in last Monday's issue, one of Charlie Nesbit's pleas to the readers not to take their holidays abroad when Britain had so much to offer. It read as Charlie sounded in the pub at lunchtime, poking the stem of his pipe at his listeners or puffing at it whenever he made a point he regarded as unanswerable: the Peak District is our oldest landscape, God's gift to walkers but still unspoiled by tourism...Nick scanned the paragraphs that listed places to visit, then reread the article slowly, hoping he was wrong. But he hadn't missed anything. There was no mention of Moonwell.

He made himself remember his first sight of the small town, the empty streets, the singing on the moors above. He was tired, that was why he was having trouble remembering, but had Charlie been tired too? Unless he came in unusually early, Nick wouldn't know for hours. He had to know. He limped back to the office next to the library, through the maze of glass cubicles, to wait at his desk.